It's Cold Outside
by coffeebuddha
Summary: Nobody thought to tell Reid that the eggnog was spiked. Derek is willing to bet money on that.
1. Chapter 1

Nobody thought to tell the kid that the eggnog was spiked. Derek is willing to bet money on that, because if they had, he wouldn't currently be swaying in front of Derek with his eyes half lidded and his cheeks flushed, babbling on about something so obscure and sciencey that he isn't even sure Reid's speaking English. Derek glances as the almost empty cup in Reid's hand and wonders exactly how much he's had. When the kid stumbles forward to put an arm around his shoulders and earnestly tells him that "out of the infinite number of possible universes I could have found myself conscious of rational thought in, I'm glad it's this one, because you're here", Derek knocks back the rest of his drink, because he _knows _that he hasn't had enough to deal with this yet.

JJ starts making polite suggestions to people about getting the hell out of her house a little after midnight, by which time the kid has been literally clinging to him for the better part of an hour. Somewhere in his crazy genealogy, there must be at least one octopus, because no amount of coaxing or pulling is making any difference on his grip. JJ acts sympathetic when Derek bobs his head toward Reid and shrugs in a 'What do I do with him?' sort of way, but she can't quite hide the amusement in her eyes and it doesn't stop her from throwing them out into the snow. Derek somehow manages to peel Reid off of him long enough to load him into the car, and works a holiday miracle by keeping him coherent long enough to get directions to his apartment.

He propels Reid up stairs and down hallways until they're at his door, takes his keys to unlock the door after the kid drops them the fourth time, and steers him into the living room to deposit him on the couch. Or at least that was the plan. Instead, when he nudges Reid toward the couch, the kid's vice-like grip on him tightens even more and he ends up tumbling down next to him. Derek frowns and tries to pull away, but Reid just slides right along after him.

"Look, kid, I know we're friends and all, but you're really starting to push the limits here. I need you to let me leave so you can go sleep this off, okay?"

Reid has his face buried in his chest and Derek feels more than sees him shake his head. "I don't want to sleep and I really don't want to be friends," he says petulantly. "I hate being your friend."

Derek goes rigid and feels cold shoot through his veins. He can't deal with this. He's worked too long and too hard to keep things easy and simple and platonic between them for Reid to fuck it up now on a drunken whim.

"You don't mean that. Come on, Reid, it's time to go to bed." Derek instantly realizes that that was probably a poor choice of words when Reid climbs into his lap and kisses him.

It's not the best kiss Derek's ever been part of. It's greedy and wet, and their teeth clink together when Reid keeps pushing closer, like he's trying to physically crawl inside of him. Derek tries to remind himself that this is a bad idea, that Reid's drunk and he's not much better, but it's hard to remember exactly _why_ all that matters when Reid's sucking on his tongue in a way that makes Derek think about Reid's hot, wet mouth sucking on other parts of his anatomy. Derek turns his head to the side, breaking the kiss, and gulps air in huge mouthfuls, a little surprised to realize his hands are on Reid's slim hips and even more surprised to realize that Reid's hands are deftly undoing his belt.

"No," Derek says firmly, but Reid seems more interested in biting his jaw and tugging the belt out of its loops to listen. Derek has fantasized about all the different noises that he might be able to coax out of Reid, but when the other man scrapes his nails down his back and sucks hard on his neck, Derek's the one who lets out a small whimper.

Derek flips them so that Reid is stretched out beneath him on the couch and grabs his wrists in one hand, gentle but restraining. Reid _growls_, a low, sexy rumble that shoots straight through him to his groin, and arches up so that the whole long, angular length of his body is flush against him. Derek drops his face into the curve of Reid's neck and groans. "Fuck, pretty boy, you're making it really hard to do the right thing here."

Reid huffs a short, breathless laugh and nips Derek's earlobe. "Good. Hard is good."

And Derek knows he's in trouble, because bad puns shouldn't be making his pulse jump. Although the jumping pulse could partially be because of the way Reid's legs are wrapped around him. Derek pushes up on his free arm, but those long legs pull him closer. "I'm serious, Reid. We can't do this."

Reid whines and rolls his hips against Derek's so that he _feels_ exactly how much Reid really does want to do this. "Why not? You always go home with all those women. Pretend I'm one of them. Use me. I don't care, I just want you."

Derek's gut clenches in lust and disgust, and he sits up, tries to put a little more distance between them. "I don't want to 'use you'. And it matters, okay? Christ," Derek says, taking in Reid's hazy, unfocused gaze. "You aren't even going to remember this in the morning."

Reid wets his lips and strains to close the space between them. "Morgan," he pleads.

"No." Derek pushes and stands at the same time, leaving Reid sprawled on his back on the couch, looking far too rumpled and tempting for him to stay any longer without doing something even more stupid than what he's already done.

By the time Reid has pulled himself together enough to sit back up, Derek's out the door and halfway down the hall, thinking about everything from case files to old football plays in a desperate attempt to distract himself from what he's leaving behind.

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_Although every man believes that his decisions and resolutions involve the most multifarious factors, in reality they are mere oscillation between flight and longing. ~ Herman Broch

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It's May and I'm writing Christmastime stories. Really, brain? _Really_?

I'm really not all that comfortable writing 'sexy', so I'm trying to remedy that by practicing more.

Feedback is always appreciated.


	2. Chapter 2

Everything's soft and hazy, like he's underwater, which is just silly, since he's nowhere near enough liquid to submerge himself. Every caress and kiss and touch feels like it's coming from far away, almost surreal. Every delicious movement is tortuously slow and gentle. Like they're taking their time. Like there's no rush, no frantic need to touch, take, consume, because they both know that even though this is the first, it won't be the last time.

Spencer shivers as hard, calloused hands run down his sides and sighs at the rough drag. He winds a leg around a muscular thigh and lets out a high keen when surprisingly soft lips tease at a nipple. One of those rough gentle hands slides down over the curve of his ass, the length of his thigh to hook under his knee and lift, shifting them so that when Spencer rocks his hips, there's nothing but the slow, slick friction of skin on skin.

"Derek," Spencer moans, curving his body around the other man's. He can't keep his hands from wandering, tracing over hard muscles that jump and shudder under his touch. "Derek, please..."

The plea turns into a helpless moan as Derek sucks a mark on his ribcage. Derek chuckles against his skin, and the combination of hot, moist breath and the low, husky sound has Spencer arching up into him again, his entire body tight and trembling. Derek's sliding further down his body, teasing him with barely there licks and glancing nips and feather light lips until Spencer thinks he might go out of his mind.

Derek brushes his lips along one sharp hipbone, presses a chaste kiss to the soft dip of flesh between, and repeats the action on the other. Noses at Spencer's side, rubs teasing circles into the back of his knee, licks into his navel, kisses and bites his way lower and lower and

and Spencer falls off the couch with a jerk. Spencer looks around, baffled, and blinks the sleep out of his eyes. His head feels fuzzy, but it doesn't hurt. He frowns, trying to separate the jumbled mess of his memories into something halfway coherent. When he manages to untangle what little he remembers, he gulps and pats himself down, even though he can feel the clothes hanging from his lanky frame. They're creased and a little disheveled, but they're all there, and there's no one else in his apartment.

He latches onto the last lingering fragments of the dream-and damn it but thinking about that isn't exactly helping his physical situation-telling himself that it was the only interesting thing that happened the night before. There's no way he would have actually tried to instigate sexual intercourse with Morgan. There's just...no way. He'd never be that stupid. He's just confused. It was all just part of the dream. Right?

Spencer stumbles to his kitchen to put on a pot of coffee and keeps repeating to himself 'it was just a dream, it was just a dream, it was just a dream' until he almost believes it.

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Derek doesn't say anything about the night of the party the next time he sees Reid. He watches nervously out of the corner of his eye, waiting for the genius to say or do anything that would indicate he remembers what happened. Days pass, then weeks, and the tightness in his chest slowly starts to ease and the churning in his stomach almost completely disappears. The kid doesn't remember. It's both a relief and a disappointment.

It isn't a matter of his not caring about the kid. No, things would be so much easier if it was as simple as that. He cares-can't say 'love'. Can't force it out even if he more than a little suspects that that might be what's really lurking there between them-but he just _can't_. Nameless, faceless women are easy. It's so simple to pick up a new one each night. He can take what he wants, they get what they want, nobody's hurt, everybody's happy. It's hollow and empty, but it doesn't hurt.

But Reid, no, Spencer...Spencer would hurt. Spencer could rip him to shreds. All it would take is one little word or action or look and Derek would be destroyed in ways and places that no one else has even been able to dent him. And the kid doesn't even realize it.

It's better this way. It's lonely, aching, cold pain, but it's better than the devastation.

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_Waiting is painful. Forgetting is painful. But not knowing which to do is the worse kind of suffering.  
~ Paulo Coelho_

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Okay, so I seriously need to stop writing open ended one shots, because the instant someone asks what's going to happen next, I end up plotting another part in my head, which is so totally never the plan. *headdesk*

Yes, this really is the end. I know it's not the ending most of you were hoping for, but I'm in the mood for angst and I've been itching to write something with an unhappy ending since I wrote the beginning of Hardly Ever. Sorry if you're disappointed. I'll write something fluffy soon!


End file.
